


act two: by fadelight

by pegaeae



Series: the life, the lyna, the legend [9]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 21:16:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17087885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pegaeae/pseuds/pegaeae
Summary: like, honestly? fuck the fade





	act two: by fadelight

Zevran had read his fair share of romance novels. What else was there to do when one was languishing on a lady’s windowsill, waiting for her to return in order to ravish (and summarily murder) her? The selection that many noblewomen had, really–tsk tsk. There was a reason a pretty face and muscled arms were all that was needed to get them to bed.

As it was, though, he knew of the cliché of the hero striding boldly in to do some heroics, some saving and some ass-kicking, and the damsel in distress rushing into his arms, babbling praises and thanks for her life, promising the hero anything in return. That was how he felt as he walked through the jagged edged door the mages tore in the veil, the first of their group to stride into the fade: bold, heroic. The chances of Lyna even being alive were slim, despite Mydha’s insistence that she saw her mother nightly in her dreams, but he knew he would find her.

One way or another.

There were ways he expected this to go. If she was alive, she’d rush into his arms and press her face into his chest, cry her tears and profess her love. He’d sweep her into a bridal carry and walk her out of the fade, heroic and triumphant despite having nothing to do with the opening of the veil.

(He had gathered them all here though, hadn’t he?)

And if she was dead, well–

If she was dead, he would be too, and the veil would close behind them.

He thought of the earring he had given her, the one that Theran had brought back in his clenched palm, tears running down his face. The one that their daughter wore now, pierced on her little ear. He wished he would’ve left the pendant, too–the one that had belonged to Lyna’s father.

He had tasted heartbreak before and tried to die for it, and this… the love that he felt for Lyna was far stronger than what he had had for Rinna. They were two halves of one whole and he was but a shell of himself without her.

And so when he saw her, every romance novel cliché, every imaginary heroic scenario, every thought fled his mind. There was nothing left but the tunnel vision of her standing at the precipice of a cliff, muscled shoulders and back covered by a year’s growth of tangled black hair. In some faraway part of his mind, he thought:  _it’s worse than it ever was during the Blight._

He was the damsel in the scenario, breaking into a run, shouting her name until she turned to look at him, wrapping his arms around her too-thin frame and falling to his knees, pressing his face into the steel muscle of her abdominals.

“Lyna, Lyna, _braska, Lyna,_ ” he was saying,  _babbling_ , his skin on fire. It had been too long since he had touched her, felt her, smelled her–

And she was pushing him away, iron hands pulling his arms from around her and pushing him back until he was sprawled on his back in the fademuck, gasping for breath like a drowning man.

(And maybe he was drowning.)

She would cry, he had told himself in his stories–but he knew his wife better than that. When had he last seen her cry?

She stared at him with those big halla eyes of hers, but they were narrowed, angry, untrusting. Those were the eyes she had looked at him with when they’d first met, when he’d tried to kill her.

“I thought you were tired of taking his shape, demon,” she said, voice low and rough, unused. “Are you running out of ideas?” Her hand fell to her belt and she partially unsheathed one of her daggers, still sharp and gleaming silver, even here. “I haven’t lost my edge yet.”


End file.
